Lawless Trail (24 page)

In the afternoon, the Ranger and the woman had both helped hold Hardaway down as the doctor sliced into his back near his spine and squeezed out a bullet that had entered his lower front side, circled beneath the skin and stopped against a small lateral muscle. As soon as the bullet was out and lying in the doctor's bloody hand, Hardaway relaxed on the blanket he lay on and let his folded trail glove fall from between his teeth.

“Obliged, Doctor,” he groaned. “I thought . . . I was a goner.”

“You might yet be,” the doctor said. “If you don't keep this wound clean and the bandage properly changed for the next few days.”

“Can I—can I ride right away?” Hardaway asked, already feeling better.

“If you feel strong enough and can stand the pain, of course you can,” the doctor said matter-of-factly. He worked as he spoke. “I advise against it, but do as your body will allow. I prefer you take at least two or three days of bed rest, but . . .” He gestured a bloody hand at their surroundings.

“I'll take it easy, Doc,” Hardaway said.

The Ranger moved back and sat watching from a few feet away. He took a cup of coffee the woman poured and handed it to him as the doctor began preparing a bandage for Hardaway's back. As the Ranger sipped his coffee, the woman kneeled on the blanket, grabbed the bandage from the doctor and took over the task of dressing the wound, front and rear.

Dr. Bernard stood up and stepped back as she worked.

“How did things go for her?” the Ranger asked, holding an open canteen up for Bernard. He tapped the canteen against the doctor's leg to get his attention.

Bernard turned to him. He reached for the canteen, poured water onto his bloody hands and washed them.

“She wasn't harmed,” the doctor said, drying his hands on a bloodstained cloth hanging over his shoulder. “Neither of us were. We did as we were told, and caused the outlaws no trouble.”

Sam watched him and listened closely, noting that the doctor kept his eyes averted from him as he spoke. He recognized an edginess in Bernard's voice, a reluctance to discuss the matter any further.

“If you and the woman are all right, I'll be riding on to the Traybos when we leave here,” Sam said. “Is there anything you can tell me that might make my job easier?”

The doctor squatted down beside him and propped his forearms on his knees. He let his damp hands dangle, as if resting them.

“You're going to kill them, aren't you, Ranger Burrack?” he asked in a manner that indicated he already knew the answer.

“Not if I can keep from it,” the Ranger said. “They weren't known as killers until this robbery in Maley.”

“What happened in Maley was a terrible misfortune,” said the doctor. “Wes Traybo told me about it. It's true Wes killed the detective posed as a bank teller. But the detective's shotgun went off and killed Widow Jenson.”

A misfortune. . . .
The Ranger looked at him, seeing the man struggle with something inside himself.

“And you believe Wes Traybo
because 
. . . ?” he said, leaving the question hanging.

The doctor gave a slight chuff and shook his head.

“All right, I asked for that,” he said. “I just don't think the Traybos are
that bad
. At any rate I don't think they deserve to be shot down like mad dogs.”

“Neither do I,” the Ranger said. “But would you rather they get a trial, be found guilty and hanged? Or maybe dragged out of their cells in the middle of the night—swung from an overhead timber until they choke to death, slowlike?”

The doctor breathed a slight sigh and considered the matter for a moment.

“Law is a gruesome, ugly business,” he said quietly, still not making eye contact.

“I can't argue with that, Doctor,” the Ranger said. “And I suppose it looks all the worse to a man whose business is saving lives.”

The doctor only nodded, studying the small flames in the fire they'd made to boil water and make coffee.

“I don't know that I will be in this
business of saving lives
much longer, Ranger,” he said.

“Oh?” Sam said. “That's too bad. The folks in Maley will hate to hear it. You appear most handy at what you do.” He gestured toward Hardaway as the woman ran a wrapping of gauze around him, covering him from his lower belly up to his rib cage.

The doctor hesitated for a moment, then turned and looked directly at the Ranger.

“I won't lie to you, Ranger,” he said. “Being held hostage by the Traybos caused something to happen to me. It's as if I wasn't a hostage at all, I was actually riding with them—a
member
of the gang, so to speak.”

The Ranger only watched and listened.

“I—I found myself wanting to do my part, put my efforts into helping them elude the law.” He paused, then said, “I found myself shooting it out with Mexican soldiers. I wounded some of them.” He shook his head. “I hope to God I didn't kill any of them.”

“You've been through a lot, Doctor,” the Ranger said. “You and the woman both. The way I'm going to report this is that you and this woman were held hostage, that you both cared for a wounded outlaw and were then released. I met you on the trail back to the border and saw no reason not to send you on your way.”

“And anything further that I feel like mentioning about it is up to me, eh, Ranger?” the doctor said.

“That's as fair as I can call it,” the Ranger said. “Whatever you did, it was done for the purpose of saving your life and the woman's. You can't be prosecuted just because you did a good job of it.”

The doctor started to speak, but the Ranger continued without allowing him to.

“You're not the first young man to look at men like the Traybo Gang and see something admirable, even
enviable
, in the way they live. But they are gunmen and thieves. You just met up with them on the edge of what they're turning into. Another year of robbing, a few more
misfortunes
, as you say, they won't be the same people. That's why I wanted to bring them in before it all got too far out of hand.”

“You could be wrong,” the doctor said. “After the killing they might see where this road is taking them. They might stop here and drop out of sight, live respectable lives, never be heard from again.”

“They could,” said the Ranger. “It's happened before. But the odds are against it, the longer they go unchecked. The law can't wait to see if they
might change
. The law has to act and act swiftly. What happened to the widow in Maley might have been caused by a detective's shotgun going off. But the fact is, the detective wouldn't have been there wielding a shotgun had it not been for the Traybos.”

“I can suppose you've had lots of time alone to work all this out for yourself, Ranger,” the doctor said, glancing at the big Colt on the Ranger's hip, at Carter Claypool's Colt shoved behind his gun belt. “So I doubt if anything I can say on the Traybos' behalf will make much difference to you.”

“You're right—it won't,” said the Ranger, gesturing toward Hardaway as the woman helped him put his shirt on over his bandages. “He's been saying much the same for them ever since we've been on their trail.”

“Perhaps I have said too much,” the doctor said. “Perhaps I need some time alone myself to think about these things.”

“Thinking never hurts, Dr. Bernard,” the Ranger said wryly. “I'm sure that's something we both agree on.” He stood and slung grounds from the empty coffee cup. “If we're all through here, Dr. Bernard,” he said, “I'll help him into his saddle and we'll be on our way.” He looked over at the woman and said to her, “Carter Claypool killed three slavers and set some women free. I understand they're headed home toward the southern Mexican border. If you take a cutoff down the trail, it'll put you at the trailside hovel. The women started from there. If you can ride, you'll catch up to them.”

Rosetta grew excited. She swiped a loose strand of hair from her face.

“
Sí
, I can ride a
caballo
like a bird rides the wind, Ranger,” she said, “'specially if I go home.”

“Thank you, Ranger Burrack,” said the doctor. “She most certainly rides. I'll see to it she gets to the hovel and that she's well on her way.”

“Obliged, to both of you,” Sam said, touching the brim of his sombrero, first toward Rosetta, then toward the doctor. “Go home, Doctor—find the good in yourself.”

Hardaway, seeing the Ranger standing, struggled up himself, buttoning his shirt.

“I still hate doing this,” he said, looking at the Ranger.

“So do I, Fatch,” the Ranger replied. “Let's go.”

•   •   •

In the afternoon, Rubens had walked out to the barn, his bottle of rye in his hand, to keep watch on the trail for Carter Claypool, who should have arrived hours ago. Wes Traybo stood looking out a window, seeing Rubens stagger only slightly as he walked through the barn door and closed it behind himself. His brother, Ty, sat on the side of his bed, holding a bowl of warm elk stew, eating it with a large spoon.

“I've never seen any man drink as much as Baylor can and still get around as well as he does,” Wes said over his shoulder.

“He told me once that he hadn't been what you'd call dry-eyed sober in over fifteen years,” Ty replied. He blew on the stew and sucked it from the spoon.

“I have no cause to doubt it,” Wes said. “A man can stay drunk so long he's better off staying that way.”

After he'd warmed stew for his brother, Wes picked up the canvas sacks of cash and laid them up on the foot of the bed. Now, as Rubens closed the barn door, Wes turned to the bags and began untying them.

“I told him this is our last job,” he said to Ty.

“How'd he take it?” Ty asked.

“Not good, but better than I thought he would,” said Wes, loosening the last tie-down on the side of the canvas sack.

“I don't know why he should take it bad,” Ty said. “He'll come out of this with enough money to last him the rest of his life if he keeps an eye on it.”

“He's not going to do that,” said Wes. “I wonder now how Carter's going to take it. He's a long rider through and through.” He picked the first sack up by either end and turned it upside down.

“Shouldn't he be getting here by now?” Ty asked. He looked around in time to see piles of pinecones, chopped-up brush and foliage from the hills above the ruins and torn Mexican newspaper spill out onto the bed.

“What the . . . ?” Wes stood staring, stunned for a moment. Ty let his spoon fall from his hand into the bowl of stew and got up unsteadily beside his bed.

“Where's the money?” he asked, a strange puzzled look on his pale, haggard face.

“Hell of a question,” said Wes. “I want to know that myself!” He hastily untied the other sack, held it upside down and shook it in the same manner, only harder.

“Oh no,” Ty said, the truth sinking in as he saw the same contents spill onto his bed. “We've been jackpotted
bad
,” he added.

Wes rummaged deep through the debris as if some sort of answer lay there.

“The captain and his soldiers got us,” Ty said, already getting the picture in his mind. “They're the only ones who can—” His words stopped at the sound of a gunshot. The two froze for a second; then Ty scrambled for his guns standing in his holster, his belt hanging from the bed's short head post. As he followed Wes out of the room, barefoot, toward the front door, another shot rang out.

“It's coming from the barn!” Wes said, snatching his rifle from against a wall. “Baylor's out there. Let's get him covered.”

Wes ran across the stretch of ground between the rear porch and the barn, looking around for any sign of gunmen among the rocks and brush behind the cabin. Ty hobbled along as fast as he could behind him. The two fell in beside the partly open door, their backs against the plank wall.

“Hold it,” Wes said, seeing a drift of gun smoke wafting out through the door. The two caught the smell of burnt powder and stared at each other.

“Oh no,” Ty said, a dark look coming to his face.

Wes threw the door open and the two walked inside, hearing nervous horses chuff and grumble and rustle around in their stalls.

At the end stall, their guns still out and pointed toward a stronger rise and smell of powder, they looked over the rail and saw Baylor Rubens' horse lying dead in the straw. Rubens was leaning back against the wall in the corner. His empty bottle was nestled in the straw on one side; his smoking Colt rested on his other side, near his right hand. Smoke curled upward from the gaping hole in his head. His slouch hat lay a few feet away, a bloody hole through the center of its crown.

“My God, brother,” Ty said quietly as if not to disturb a sleeping man. “Baylor has killed himself, and his horse too.”